


Virginia Highway Blues

by sunshineramblings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Dark Will Graham, F/M, M/M, Will kills Abigail, major chara death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29885829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshineramblings/pseuds/sunshineramblings
Summary: This is a piece inspired by the song by Chat Pile called ‘Dalla Beltway’. It’s a haunting song and it immediately thought about the episode where Will thinks he kills Abigail. This is a divergent path in which Will does kill Abigail.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 7





	Virginia Highway Blues

Minnesota.

Will’s been driving around in circles for, what feels like, hours. 

Minnesota, not unlike Virginia (or Alabama for that matter), was easy enough for him to fly through; by the time Will has the border in his back mirror he’s already realized he remembers nothing of it. 

The vaguest recollection of the city, of the past three cities, is fuzzy around the edges. Will feels drunk.

The only memory that sticks to the backs of his eyes, invading his attempts to sleep, to rest, is of taking Abigail’s life. He hadn’t meant to.

He’d like to go on record to say that he had not meant to cause any harm.

But, see, the men in his family....they ruined things. The blood of the Graham men was curdled and thick, poisonous and sweet to the tongue and the anger that boiled and brimmed just under the surface - well, it was an endless well. 

Will grips the steering wheel, only slightly remorseful to suddenly remember that transporting a dead body across state lines was a criminal offence. 

Only second to murder, he grimly supposes. 

The smirk on his face, the painful grimace he cannot hide, aches without humor. His teeth are still bared. He wonders if there is flesh still in his teeth, as he feels there is.

Will wonders if his father knew this was coming, if taking the life of his child (not his child) was something he had seen arriving, even in his own childhood. Surely there was a reason for the anger and hate he’d faced everyday, perhaps a punishment for his future sins.

He’d tried to become a man that did not wince at the sight of his own life, but things had gotten tangled up somewhere along that line. 

Will feels drunk. His head swims and the car swerves when he, finally, makes it to the state border of Virginia. 

He thinks about his dad. 

Thinks about the violence of his silence and the kindness that came with alcohol after one of his late nights. He thinks of the reek of whiskey on his grandfather’s breath and the stink of cigarette butts of his father.

Will tightens his hold on the steering wheel, gently sways with the car and finds himself much more lucid that he’s been in quite some time. The Will before the flight to Minnesota would have been racked with guilt. The Will now glances at himself in the mirror and does not see Garret Jacob Hobbes, doesn’t even see Hannibal, there is only the dark stare of himself staring back at himself. 

Normally he’d like to think he’s a reasonable sort of man, people trusted him; he was a police officer for fuck sake! He wasn’t the type of person to lure his own daughter (not his daughter) so that he could snuff out her life light, this couldn’t be who he was.

Right?

His hands, ordinary, a fisherman’s hands, had done something terribly horrid to something entirely too fragile. 

The drive itself, hours from the border, feels as if he has only blinked and now they are home. The sky has begun to break into a water color haze and Will Graham and Abigail Hobbes are home.

He is home, anyway. He sees his little home, a boat among the dead reeds and piles of icy sleet, and wonders if the light on inside is who he thinks it is. There is no car outside waiting, but there is little chance it's anybody else.

Will only idly puts the car in neutral before tuning into the blaring, desperate almost, chime of the bell that alerts him he has not has hid seatbelt on for quite some time.

The light blinks in and out of his vision of like oil, a distraction that has him seated quietly; wondering if it's been on the entire time.

How did he drive from Minnesota to Virginia with that incessant bleating? The first few hours of departure had been torture for him, what with Abigail's banging around in the trunk.

Hannibal will understand that it had to be this way, that she would not leave without him forcing his hand. Hannibal knows Abigail as well as he does, there would be little misunderstanding as to why he had to do it -- Hannibal would fix all of it. 

Some small, sick part of Will is convinced that Hannibal could stitch her back alive; pull her threads tighter so as to create the illusion of life. 

Suddenly, as if summoned by name only, Hannibal pulls the car door open. A burst of cold air hits Will's sweating brow, eyes squinting in abject horror. His hand, bloody and pierced in several places, comes up to block out the sun.

"Will?" Hannibal sweetly speaks, reaching so that he may take his raised hand in his own.

"Do you want to see what ordinary hands can do to something fragile?" Will slurs. Each word feels like vomit, the taste salty and copper.

Will is surprised to find that even touch cannot register itself at this moment, Hannibal's hands are warm. There is no ground to be tied to, no noose tight enough to keep Will from floating away.

Hannibal's gaze travels to their hands and Will follows, blinking into the moment to find that his hands are still covered in blood. It is dry now, the blood, and no longer as sticky as it once was.

"What have you done?" The doctor near whispers, maroon eyes widening at the same time his lips thin into a smile; perhaps a grimace.

"Okay, l - listen!" Even Will can hear the watery bird sound of tears coming, the sound of a scream reaching up from his stomach into his throat. It's all too much. He stutters through another incoherent word, an excuse, guilty before he even tell shim what he's done. 

That's when Hannibal leaned in, and for a moment Will is sure he's being hugged. Will cannot remember the last time he was hugged.

Their bodies press against one another tightly, Hannibal reaching over so that he may put the parking break in place, even goes so far as to take the keys from the ignition.

Will could use a little help. He feels as if he was just shot up with morphine, like he's been drugged. 

None of it feels real, but Hannibal flutters about him as if floating - maybe he is, maybe Hannibal isn't real either. His hands are sure but Will can't feel the way they touch and prod him, as if looking for fault; it will later come to him that he is looking for injury.

He looks for reason as to why Will is covered in dried blood, but finds none. He touches the man in the driver seat gently, first his pulse and then his abdomen. Under his shirt there is blood there, too. Dried and browning.

"Will, you are in Wolftrap, Virginia." His voice is honey with vinegar, a sweet greeting but foul after-taste in the back of his throat's memory. When he speaks again, it is softer, eyes to match. "It is seven-thirty and you've been missing for fourteen hours."

When had he arrived home? Bleary eyes struggle to find his speedometer, finds that his gas-tank is empty and the engine light is blinking; on and off, on and off. 

"I'm not -- how did I get here?" Will asks with a whispery sort of sound, tone full of child-like guilt. His big doe eyes are half-lidded. 

"I am not entirely sure, you were here as I arrived. To-" An abrupt ending to his explanation is so unlike Hannibal that Will turns his head to look at him next, "To feed your dogs. Alana expressed her worries, she informed me that you took Abigail out of the hospice. Is this true?" 

He isn't ready to answer that question. Even replaying the scene over and over in his head, obsessed and vigorous, is not enough to get the words to come. Instead, he begins to speak in a peculiar jumbled string of words, a sentence that did not sound like Will Graham at all.

"I-I'm normally a reasonable guy, Hannibal, look at me; Okay, listen, I’m normally a reasonable guy. People trust me-" Will's body comes to life and he reaches for Hannibal's lapels and holds him there, one leg beginning to lift and place itself out of the car. He pulls on him as if for leverage and Hannibal does not budge one bit.

"You are beginning to worry me," He admits, helps Will from his car. It's clear from his body language that he is stiff, shoulder slightly bent to the side. His shoulder, Hannibal assumes, is bothering him. 

Standing side by side, the two are connected in the middle. Will sags slightly, nearly falls forward if it weren't for the man holding him up.

"M'not that kind of person, well, maybe--maybe I am." 

When he is steady on his feet, he takes a step towards the boot of the car. Even the trunk is slightly open, a treasure box with immoral treasures and cursed gifts. 

Will lifts the trunk and Abigail Hobbes is inside.

She looks smaller than he's ever seen her, child-like in her death. Hannibal's thin mouth opens some but he cannot form words, simply comes around the car and lifts the trunk alongside Will- makes sure that it would not close. 

Inside Hannibal's mind a thousand different life-lines are derailed with one glance inside. He sees his plans for the future withering rapidly and he cannot stop it; Abigal's mouth hangs open, too, unnaturally wide. The inside of her mouth is dark, a pit of broken teeth and gashed gums. Her eyes are no longer in her skull and the faint starting of a bruise blossoms across her cheek.

Her body is in no better condition than her face.

Will looks into the trunk and blinks, turns his head and watches the other man go through the motions.

Abigail's hands are twisted and mangled at her side, fingers splayed painfully in sporadic directions. Her clothes are the only thing to have survived. Her dark, puffy vest is still intact. Her jeans are as well, although Hannibal can see that her hips are also angled awkwardly. 

If he were not so in control of his expression perhaps adoration could sleep into it seamlessly, Hannibal muses silently.

He is not surprised to see her here, lifeless and gored. He only wishes he were with the body sooner, to preserve her, to guide Will into the correct stream.

But it is late and they are losing daylight.

Immediately Hannibal turns to Will and takes his face in his hands, "There is no forgiveness for parents that take their children's lives, Will. But I forgive you." His tone borders on emotional, the brevity in his voice a mask of his genuine intention. "First we must take care of you, there would be no use to take her anywhere as she is now. Come, dear boy, let us look after you."

Will, who hasn't taken his eyes off of Hannibal once, feels more sure of himself than he did only moments before. Hannibal sees him, truly sees him, and still forgives him. He nods shakily, allows the man to take his hand and lead him inside; the trunk is closed and he feels guilty for leaving Abigail inside, alone. 

He doesn't believe she should be alone. 

Hannibal, oddly enough, believes that Will should not be left alone, either. 

They retire to his home and they let the dogs out and Winston does not leave with his pack-- ever the faithful pooch, he stays by Will's side. Even as Hannibal strips him of his clothes and builds the fire inside the hearth, even when Hannibal takes a wet cloth to him an begins to wash away the blood.

Inside that small, one bed-room shack of a home, the teacup begins to crack and creak as bracing to break.


End file.
